wild things

Turned backs are for backwards thinking...

It’s, for some too-chewy,
      A gnashing, toothy maw
          They dive out of, or crawl,
      To become who they are,
Outwear who they were.
      No boast for old bones,
          Bur-burned and bruised,
      Cold-tipped and skewed,
Yet they, too, will leap
      From that thrashing tongue,
          Though more shrewdly;
      Rudely, they may go
Forgotten-fast and unsung
      For being eaten clean
          By the hungry past,
      Sight unseen and sudden-gone—
But turned backs are
      For backwards thinking;
          The unblinking wait
      For that monster to yawn.

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